I stayed firm, showing her to the door. The last thing I saw was her standing in my driveway, mascara running down her face as she shouted about ungrateful children.
That evening, as I sat in Dad’s old armchair, one of the few pieces of furniture I’d kept from his house, the texts started coming in.
“How dare you treat me this way? The least you can do is give me a few thousand dollars.
It’s what I deserve.”
I shook my head and set my phone aside, but another text notification dinged.
“I can see you’ve read my message. Don’t ignore me, you ungrateful brat! I want what’s owed to me!
Give me the money!”
It went on and on, but I didn’t answer a single message.
I considered sending her a penny, but even that was more than she “deserved.” Eventually, I switched my phone off and curled up in the chair, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and Dad’s cologne.
For the first time since his death, I let myself cry. Not just for him but for the 15-year-old girl who’d needed a mother and got a manipulator instead. For the years of lies and guilt trips.
For all of it.
But mostly, I cried because I finally felt free.
Dad had given me that first taste of freedom when he found me at the shelter, and now, by standing up to Mom, I’d finished what he started.
Some people say you can’t choose your family. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, your family chooses you. Dad chose me.
And that was enough.
